Page 10 of My Starry Valentine

“I think geeks are hot,” I flirt, side-eyeing him.

“Said nobody ever…” he adds with a frown.

“I’m not nobody, Starboy,” I reply, raising my chin in challenge.

“That’s for sure,” he concedes, his voice dropping in timbre, appraising me more boldly as we stand by the welcome mat, removing our boots and coats. “Starboy? What’s up with all the name-calling?”

I shrug. “You need a nickname or two.”

“And you’re the woman who’s going to give them to me?”

I shrug again, pursing my lips. “Maybe.” He smiles broadly, distracted enough to forget about hiding his scars from me momentarily.

This feels good, the chemistry zinging between us. I could get used to this heady feeling.

“It’s a shame you showed up during a blizzard. Because on a clear night, I could give you the show of your life,” he says, pointing skyward. “This part of Colorado boasts some of the most pristine night skies in the world.”

“Really? I would love to see them.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the storm will break before you leave,” he says with a nod. “Now, I’ve got a fire to get started and dinner to figure out while you relax and warm up.”

Staring at this grumpy beast of a man with long, wild brown hair, a scruffy beard, piercing blue eyes, and a handsome, chiseled, frowning profile, he presents the ultimate mystery. Reclusive and smart, clearly self-conscious about his appearance, and attractive in a rugged, feral way that I have trouble defining or denying.

Chapter Seven

LEDGER

My angel excuses herself to the guest bedroom to freshen up, and I set up the bread machine to make pizza dough and start pre-warming the oven. Then, I head for my bedroom to get washed up. After a long day of ice climbing, I can only imagine how I smell and look.

I shower quickly, not allowing myself to stay long under the hot spray. But I find myself using the best shampoo and body wash combo I own. Something my mom bought me last Christmas. Something I was pretty sure was a total waste of her money.

Now, I thank the wise woman for her providential gift. Even when reality smacks me hard and ruthlessly upside the head.Why would Luna care about how you smell?She’s here against her will. And she’ll leave as soon as the blizzard breaks.

But the nasty inner critic can’t drown out the pounding of my heart or how my mind flashes to all that’s adorable about her—pretty much everything, as far as I can tell. The way she purses her full, kissable mouth while thinking deeply. How her eyes flutter up to the right as if searching the sky or ceiling for answers. The silkiness of her soft voice and how she squeezes her hands in front of her when she’s nervous. The stunning arch ofher eyebrows when she’s curious. The pink flush of her cheeks when embarrassed…

I’m obsessed, and I’ve known her for less than one hour. Is this how moths feel pursuing the moon? If so, I’m ready to fly all night.

Maybe I indulge in these feelings and thoughts because it’s been so long since I thought about loving or being loved. Maybe it’s because I realize inherently the fleeting nature of this moment. After all, an insurmountable problem exists…one I can’t ignore forever.

Time for a little mirror therapy. I start with the good side. The side that could almost convince me I’m worthy of love. It’s not too shabby, even though wrinkles around my eyes and mouth attest to a life thoroughly lived. Then, with a grimace, I turn to the left. Flipping my hair back, I absorb the mass of red, shapeless scar tissue punctuated by my lashless blue eye.

I’m luckier than many burn victims. My nose and lips are intact. But my cheeks look angry and thick, and my left ear is little more than a melty lump. My beard doesn’t grow on that side, except in weird little patches, and I have no eyebrow. I read somewhere that eyebrows are essential to facial recognition. Good luck with this hunk of flesh.

The scar tissue extends down one side of my neck, over my shoulder partway down my back and along an angry patch over my chest to where my abs start. It cuts more than one of my Marine tattoos in half, making my anchor, bulldog, and full-chest Sailor Jerry eagle ink look like fizzled-out kindergarten artwork. Some comrades in similar positions have suggested redoing the ink to fill in the missing areas and make my appearance more tolerable for others. But is “tolerable” a way to live a life?

The scar tissue and grafted skin feel tight, itchy, and hot to the touch in spots, and the colors vary from angry red to a pastywhite, bumpy in some spots and pulled taut in others. Frigid temperatures slice through the damaged nerve endings like a butcher knife, and visions of me have made little kids and grown women cry.

How’s that for a soulmate?I sigh long and hard, forcing myself to look and look and look…until I feel despondent.

The VA keeps trying to connect me with a facial reconstruction program out of UCLA that may be able to make me look more presentable, even create a prosthetic ear for me, and help me with eyebrow and beard implants. But I’ve already been through so many surgeries and endured so much pain. And in the name of what? To never recognize the patched-up person staring back at me.

Focusing on my lashless and eyebrowless left eye, I say out loud, “There’s no way in hell Luna would ever be attracted to you. She’s perfect. She deserves the best the world has to offer, not a burned-out shell of a man.”

Never one to engage in self-pity for long, I keep the pathetic self-lecture brief. To my surprise, its after-effects are even shorter lived. Toweling off my hair, I dress quietly, my head buried in too many thoughts and feelings to sort out properly. Try as I might to convince my heart to take it down a notch, what I feel for this woman is undeniable.

What is harder to explain, though, are the looks she gives me in return. Breathless ones with a warmth simmering behind her eyes that I used to recognize but fear to acknowledge now.

Why me? Why a man disfigured past the point of recognition over one-third of his body?

---